An Officer and a Gentleman
by UnHolyChurch
Summary: 1943 Spike and Dru in German Occupied France
1. An Officer and a Gentleman

Title: An Officer and a Gentleman (Prologue/?) v.1.2  
  
Author: UnholyChurch  
  
Disclaimer: Spike and Dru belong to Joss, ME and the whole band at UPN The other characters however are of my own creation.  
  
Summary: 1943 Central Europe. A story about Spike and Dru in war torn France.  
  
Pairings: Spike/Dru, there will be some abstract Buffy Xander later  
  
Rating: R  
  
Note: This is intended to be the first in a series of fics that are designed to build a history behind the Vampire known as William the Bloody.  
  
Who was Spike before he came to Sunnydale? What did he do?  
  
Note: Something that bothers me so I'm clearing it up. Vampires can breath they just don't have to. This is why Spike can smoke. Their lungs function but the oxygen isn't required by the body.  
  
Historical Note: for those of you who know history better than I please disregard any inaccuracies that I have overlooked. It tried to research a little but didn't have time to be completely thorough.  
  
  
  
The low rumble of wheels rattling over the steel tracks echoed dully through the nearly empty luxury railroad car. Every object in the car dripped with opulence and extravagance, from the ornate mahogany furniture covered with satin cushions to the plush red wall-to-wall carpeting and the finely crafted works of art that hung on every wall. There was a well- stocked wet bar in one corner filled with the finest spirits money could buy. A detailed map of western France hid the felt-covered gaming table. Spike leaned back in one of the plush armchairs that surrounded the room. His velvet-trimmed coat lay across the back of the chair. Black against red. Red against black. Like another work of art. In one hand he held a half empty tumbler of brandy, the cubes of ice very nearly melted. His feet were up, and rested on an ottoman decorated as richly as the rest of the furniture. The reflection from the gas lamps shone in the polish of his black riding boots. Silently he stared across the room, his steely- blue eyes fixed on the world passing by outside the window. Moving the lit cigarette in his hand to his mouth he took another long pull at the harsh smoke.  
  
As he watched solemnly, his mind drifted to his own recent history. Some 20 years ago he and Dru had come to central Europe to enjoy the wonderful chaos that abounded in the aftermath of the Great War. Times had been good. A missing person here and there was commonplace and for a vampire it was pure paradise. Together they had gained control of a small estate in the Hungarian countryside from its rather carefree and careless owners. It was near enough to Budapest that they never had to travel far for a meal. They lived through the 20s as though they were king and queen of their own tiny kingdom.  
  
Governments rose and fell. In the beginning, Russian influence was strong on the weak Hungarian leadership but communism and bolshevism themselves were still young and disorganized and never really a bother to two creatures of the night. Time passed and the world began to change. A new power was gaining strength in the heart of Europe. Spike had watched with fascination as one Adolf Hitler and his Third Reich drew strength from the discontentment that plagued European nations still struggling with reconstruction and insurmountable war debts. The power they now wielded had become the mightiest force Europe had seen since the days of Napoleon or possibly even Alexander the Great. Finally the Germans had decided to unsheathe the mighty sword they had been sharpening and hardening for nearly a decade for battle. With several massive slashes they had defeated nearly the entire European continent. Only a few holdouts in distant Russia and Spike's home island across the English Channel kept the Nazis from absolute victory.  
  
The war was ripping the countryside apart. Reports of bombings across France and Germany filled the newspapers daily. Spike's blood would boil with excitement as he read the reports of violence and destruction. Finally he could sit idle no longer. He needed to be near the action. So one dead conductor and a few missing passengers later, he and Dru were on a train bound for the occupied city of Paris, France.  
  
Initially, Spike didn't know what he was going to do upon arrival. He had nowhere to go but that really didn't bother him. He knew something would turn up. And sitting here now he had just realized what that something was. This richly decorated car did not belong to him. He was merely a guest invited in for a drink by an unwary soul. But he decided that this lifestyle was indeed what he wanted. And he had decided how to get it.  
  
Spike tossed back the rest of his drink and glanced to the floor. At his feet lay the body of his unsuspecting host. A young soldier, a lieutenant, probably only 22, he was dressed in the black uniform of the German SS. Around his sleeve was the red armband emblazoned with the black swastika that associated him with the Nazi party, an organization that had become of extreme interest to Spike. At the boy's neck was a trickle of dried blood that had run down onto the epaulettes pinned to his black collar. Now bathed in blood were the silver S's shaped like lightning bolts that distinguished this soldier as a member of the Schutzstaffel or Protection Squad. Spike smiled to himself at the symbolism of this small detail. Within small circles of people in Europe the SS had become infamous for their cruelty and bloodshed, especially when it came to the treatment of the "non-Aryan" races. The occupying Nazis had formed a tight grip on the European press however, and none of these stories made it into the papers. Spike had connections within these circles and some of the stories shocked even him. He had trouble believing that mere humans were capable of such acts of atrocity and cruelty.  
  
A clamor from the opposite end of the car broke Spike out of his thoughts. He couldn't see to the rear of the car because there was a division for sleeping quarters and the hallway was on the opposite side from where he was sitting. But he could hear what sounded to be struggling and muffled cries of pain and fear. He heard a door open and then slam shut again to the sleeping quarters in this car. Spike sucked the last drag out of his cigarette as he rose from his seat. Crushing the butt out in the ashtray, he turned back as the door nearer to him opened and let in the sounds of the outside world rushing by. Through the door entered Drusilla dressed in one of her loveliest emerald gowns, a smile filled with perverse joy on her lips. Her eyes sparkled with anticipation. Spike gave her a knowing look. Being together for so long meant that words were rarely needed. She knew instantly what he wanted and she was overjoyed by what it meant. She jumped up and down slightly clapping her gloved hands together gently like a little child who'd been told they get to go to the Candy Shoppe.  
  
On each side of the door Dru had entered were two other soldiers lying on the floor. One was propped up against the wall his eyes still open staring into nothingness. Neither had puncture wounds on their necks but their heads were both twisted at horrific angles. Dru stepped over the legs of the first soldier and as she passed she allowed her fingers to glide over the head and down the face of the other as she pushed his eyelids closed.  
  
Putting a gloved finger to her lips she whispered "Shhh time for sleeping now. Daddy doesn't want you to be awake." Coming in she stopped to look down at the lieutenant before continuing on to Spike, nuzzling the side of his neck, her one hand rested on Spike's chest, the other played with the short brown hair at the back of his neck. Her smile transformed into a pout. "You started the fun without me. Makes me feel sad. Makes me want to cry."  
  
Spike tipped her chin up and kissed her pouty lip. " Have no fear pet. There's more." He held her face with his eyes until a smile spread across her lips. He then turned toward the far hallway.  
  
The sounds of a struggle emanated from behind the closed door of the nearest sleeping quarters. Standing in front of it, his hand on the knob, Spike waited and listened a moment. He could hear what sounded to be a girl pleading, and then cloth ripping. Then he heard a man grunt and swear in German, then flesh striking flesh. A sneer curled Spike's lip, he turned the knob but the door was locked. With a shrug of his shoulders, he shoved his fist through the door jam. Wood splintered as the deadbolt broke through the frame. Spike stood fast in the doorway, his eyes fixed on the sight before him.  
  
On a large four-poster bed on one side of the quarters was a half-dressed SS colonel. His pants were down around his ankles and his uniform coat was unbuttoned but he still had it on. He was struggling with a girl who looked to be only 15. Her dress was torn open at the top, revealing her breasts, though it was almost difficult to see where it was ripped, as the dress was so tattered and torn. It was more patches than dress. Her face was dirty and smeared with blood from a split lip.  
  
When the door had broken in, both had stopped and turned. But the girl immediately went back to struggling. The man bodily held her down and turned his head back to Spike. In German he shouted, "What are you doing here?!?! Guards!! Gregor!!! Bjorn!!!  
  
Spike put a hand to his head as though the shouting caused him a headache and responded in prefect German. "Must you Nazi officers always shout like that? Anyway Bjorn and Gunter, Gregor whatever, won't be coming. They've already had their fun for tonight."  
  
The Officer looked incredulously at him then reached to the nightstand beside the bed and pulled open the top drawer. He drew a Luger from inside, but Spike was across the room before he could bring the pistol to level. Grabbing the colonel's hand he twisted sharply and a loud crack could be heard as the bone in the man's wrist snapped to what should have been an impossible angle. The German screamed in pain and dropped the gun. As he did he loosened his grip on the girl and she twisted away from him. Leaping from the bed she sped past Spike. He made no move to stop her. His attention was locked on the colonel.  
  
Releasing the hand Spike quickly established a firm grip at the colonel's throat. Pushing the man back against one of the bedposts, he looked the officer up and down and then glanced at the disheveled bed. His eyes held the fire of excitement, the look on Spike's face made it clear that he drew much pleasure from this. "Oh I'm sorry. Did I interrupt your little game?"  
  
The man's eyes bulged and his face turned purple.  
  
"Well, I have a little game of my own I like. And you are a lucky bastard. Cause guess what? I'm going to teach you how to play. I don't do that for everyone you know." His voice was filled with mock innocent chiding.  
  
Spike's face transformed from his human appearance to the ridges and fangs of his vampire mask. Leaning in he pushed the man's head to one side and whispered in the German's ear "Don't worry. This game is easy. The only rule is: Do exactly as I say." With that he lowered his teeth into the skin of the man's neck.  
  
At first the colonel struggled but quickly his actions became more subdued. His body was nearly limp when Spike stopped. Holding the man with one hand at the back of his neck, he put his own wrist to his mouth and bit into the vein. As the blood started to flow Spike pushed the wound to the mouth of the German. "Now drink."  
  
The man, barely conscious, did as he was told. Spike let him drink until he decided it was enough and then pulled his hand away and threw the officer's unconscious body onto the bed.  
  
Not giving him a second glance, he walked out through the shattered doorframe and called out for Drusilla. As he walked back into the main room of the railroad car, he saw her sitting in the chair he had been in. Resting in her lap was the girl. Her eyes were closed and her head leaned against Dru's breast. Seeing him come in Dru raised another finger to her lips and shushed. "Shhhhh, baby's sleeping." Lightly she stroked the girl's unkempt hair. As she did the girl's head fell to one side, and Spike saw the two bloody holes at the base of her neck. He smiled sardonically and shook his head. Dru looked up at him, her face sweetened by an innocent smile.  
  
TBC 


	2. Paper Wings

Title: An Officer and a Gentleman (1/?)  
  
Author: UnholyChurch  
  
Disclaimer: Spike and Dru belong to Joss, ME and the whole band at UPN. The other characters however are of my own creation.  
  
Summary: 1943 Central Europe. A story about Spike and Dru in war torn France.  
  
Pairings: Spike/Dru, there will be some proxy Buffy/Xander later  
  
Rating: R  
  
Note: This is intended to be the first in a series of fics that are designed to build a history behind the Vampire known as William the Bloody.  
  
Who was Spike before he came to Sunnydale? What did he do?  
  
  
  
Historical Note: for those of you who know history better than I please disregard any inaccuracies that I have overlooked. It tried to research a little but didn't have time to be completely thorough. And for any of you air force enthusiasts especially I'm probably inaccurate in the procedure and terminology used to describe this air battle. Forgive me. This is fiction. And hey come on vampires don't exist either.  
  
  
  
The engine of the aircraft whined as it struggled through a strong upcurrent, then the plane righted itself and the low rhythmic hum returned to the cockpit. Major Alex Harrelson checked his gauges, adjusted his pitch, and scanned the horizon. The sun had just cracked over the blue water of the English Channel and the glaring red and orange rays were just becoming bright enough that he needed to look away to maintain clear vision. Turning to look to his rear he mentally checked the spacing and formation of the bombers and their escorts. The French shoreline was only minutes away and he could feel the tension build as his bomber group approached the shoreline of occupied France airspace.  
  
  
  
This was by no means his first mission over the guns of German coastal defense into the grasp of the ever-lethal Luftwaffe or German air force. But no matter how many times he flew in and out of the lion's mouth it never became less unnerving, especially the last moments before the guns would open fire. Those last seconds of silence were always the worst. His mind would dwell over things left undone and thoughts best left unfinished. What if he didn't make it back this time? What if this was his last mission? What of the men under his command? Who wouldn't be coming home this time? As the men often joked, who was flying this mission with "paper wings"?  
  
Shaking his mind free of these worrisome questions, he forced his attention to the task at hand and not the possible outcomes. Going over the mission checklist in his head, he once again scrutinized the formation of his pilots. Eight B17s made up the bombers in his command each was assigned two P51 Mustangs as escort. Major Harrelson was in his own Mustang flying alongside the lead bomber. Up ahead he could make out the black cliffs that made up the fast approaching shoreline. Tightening his grip on the controls, he prepared for hell to break loose.  
  
Just as the white beach and rocky cliffs passed below, the bomber group finally entered the range of the flak towers that made up the coastal defense. Instantly the calm sky was ripped apart by screaming metal. All around little explosions dotted the sky leaving behind black puffs of smoke. The first volley was not very accurate. But as the gunners on the ground quickly zeroed in the range, the fire got closer and closer. There was little Alex could do but say a prayer and ride it out. With each shell that exploded near his plane a shockwave would rattle through the aircraft and nearly jar his teeth from his mouth. He continually checked behind him to see if any of his planes had been hit. So far they had been lucky.  
  
It looked like the number three bomber had been clipped on the tail but the pilot had communicated that they were still in good shape. Then his headset crackled and the pilot of the number six bomber reported the loss of an engine. It had taken a direct hit and a good portion of the wing with it. Craning his neck, he saw the troubled bomber, black smoke billowing from the left wing, propeller dead in the air. He watched as it pitched downward and began to spin violently. Swearing to himself, he shouted into the microphone for them to jump. He saw three parachutes open but no more. Turning back forward he clenched his eyes shut for a second in anger and frustration. Each bomber had a crew of ten men. And the way they had just spun in, there was little chance for the others to survive. Cursing the guns below, his fists tightened around the controls, he took a deep breath, and forced himself not to think about them. He had a mission to complete; he would mourn his fallen friends later.  
  
  
  
  
  
The fire slackened a bit as the group of planes moved out of range of the heavily concentrated anti-aircraft guns. For about twenty minutes they cruised along with little harassment from the enemy. But the break was short lived. On the southern horizon, Alex spotted a tight formation of FW- 190s. They were trying to get in behind his bombers. Checking the other directions for additional enemy aircraft he barked orders into the radio. "Bravo Group, bogeys at four o'clock. Break and engage. Hendersen and Varner both with Bravo. Alpha group stay with mother bird. Watch for the box breakers!" The escorts on the left wing of each bomber broke away to engage the enemy fighters, while the others stayed home to watch for more bogeys. The two fighters he had singled out were the pilots that had been with bomber number six.  
  
He watched as the Bravo group rolled away and circled around back to the 190s. The FW190 was a fair match for the American P51. The German fighters carried a heavier weapons load but the Mustang with its Merlin engine was much faster and a bit more graceful so Alex wasn't too concerned with his pilots. He knew they could handle a dogfight. What did bother him was having only half his squadron to guard the flying fortresses. It was a common tactic for the Luftwaffe to send in two groups of fighters, the first would draw off the escorts and the second, the "box breakers", would then move in and slaughter the larger, slower less maneuverable bombers. The Major hoped that by splitting his fighters into two groups he was protecting against both dangers.  
  
  
  
  
  
Then, there they were, a second group of 190s. Alex had expected them but he wasn't pleased to see them. From this distance, it appeared there were nine of them. "Damn," he swore under his breath. He thumbed his radio, "We got more of them. One o'clock Alpha, break and form on me. Big birds you're on your own for the moment. Watch your six." With that he rolled to the right, away from the lead bomber, and banked towards the oncoming enemy. The other Mustangs moved into position at his wings, as he assumed an intercept course. The Germans in turn corrected their course and headed directly for the Major and his planes. They flew directly towards one another, tracers filling the air, screaming passed Alex's plane. Once they had passed them he gave the order to break and engage.  
  
One of the enemy fighters had apparently been heavily hit in the first pass because smoke was already trailing from its engine. He was turning away from the fight. One down, eight to go. Circling back around, Harrelson saw four of the 190s breaking for the bombers. He communicated this into the radio, "Johnson with me." They turned off and chased after the rogue fighters. The Germans had a good lead on them but they were making up ground quickly, unfortunately it wasn't going to be quick enough. He watched helplessly as they strafed the slow moving bombers. The B17s weren't defenseless, and as the fighters made their first pass the tail and ball gunners opened up with their own barrage. But it wasn't as easy to hit a small, fast-moving plane, as it was the lumbering bombers.  
  
Over the radio came the call for assistance. The pilot in the fourth bomber had taken a round through his chest and the controls were damaged; the copilot was struggling to keep her in the air. The enemy was circling around for a second pass when Harrelson and Johnson came within weapons range. Alex's first stream of bullets tore a line across the fuselage of the nearest enemy fighter. Immediately the plane began to lose altitude as the engine lost power. The remaining three 190s split apart. Harrelson moved to follow the two that had broken to the left. Johnson stayed with the solo fighter.  
  
The pair of fighters were still working around to make another run on the bombers, Alex stayed in as close as he could behind them. His cannons blazed as tried to bring them down before they could do any more damage to the bombers. Finally another stream of bullets scored a solid hit in the tail of the German plane on the left. The damaged fighter began to weave and spinout of control, and Alex watched as it veered directly into the other enemy plane. A ball of flame and flying debris was the all that remained after the collision apparently ignited one of the plane's fuel tanks. Alex had not been expecting the sudden destruction of both fighters and had still been following in close. Before he had a chance to react, a fragment of wreckage broke through the bubble of the cockpit, shattering the glass, and then striking the tail. The pain of steel and glass embedding itself into his chest and shoulder was searing. Alex tried to keep his hands at the controls but everything was fading, the plane was spinning wildly. He struggled for control. Falling. Spinning. Everything was going black.  
  
  
  
  
  
"Nooooooooooo!!!!!!!!" Alex shot up from his pillow. He was still screaming, ; beads of sweat were running down his face. He tried to raise his hands but pain in his chest and shoulder slammed him back to reality. He wasn't falling. He wasn't in his plane. He was in bed, but it was still dark. No. Something was over his eyes. Then a pair of firm hands gripped his good arm and shoulder and pulled him back to the bed. And a voice …, he could heard a voice. It was soft and feminine, and very near him. "Shhhhhh, it's okay. You're all right Major. Just lay back and calm down. It was only a dream."  
  
  
  
TBC 


	3. Dogs of War

"Dog's of War"   
  
Spike's eyes fluttered open in response to movement beside him. Immediately his body tensed, preparing for an unknown attacker. It took only a second for him to realize that it was only Dru, shifting in her sleep. He allowed his body to slip back to its relaxed state as he gazed above him at the dark blue canopy covering the finely ornamented four-poster bed he and Dru shared. Covering them were satin sheets softer than a baby's soft neck, and the mattress was gloriously comfortable. Looking around the bedchamber, he took in the elegance and refinement of all the furnishings. The marble fireplace, the antique furniture, the masterfully painted portraits framed in intricately handcrafted woodwork trimmed in gold and silver, all these things bespoke the lavishness of the room Spike now used as his own.   
  
Spike smiled to himself. Everything was falling into place just the way he had planned. Through a bit of extreme good luck and some of his own "devious" charm he had secured himself and his life mate the perfect ringside seat. A seat for what he was sure would be a wonderfully violent and supremely terrifying collision of the ideals and policies of a power- hungry, self-important collection of thugs and hotheads calling themselves a government; and the reality of what these excessive ideals and policies meant in terms of physical force. And not only was Spike going to be a witness and beneficiary of the chaos and bloodshed, but he had put himself in a position to actually participate in this gleefully torturous affair. Only a few weeks had passed since the night on the train when Spike had introduced himself so graciously to the German SS, but in that time Spike had used his influence and newly created connections to find his place in the vast German Wermacht. To Spike's pleasure he learned that the Colonel he had turned, the one with the fondness for young girls, was not only extremely obedient, but that he was not without connections and value. Colonel Konigsfeld had been enroute to Paris to attend to some SS business and then to move out to Tendrecoeur to take over operations there.   
  
Tendrecoeur itself was just a small village some 30 clicks from Paris, but about a mile outside of town was a château or large manor, which was now being used by the Gestapo as a central base for this region. The Manor house had belonged to Jean Luc Tendrecoeur, a wealthy industrialist who had spoken out against the German occupation from the start. Since his family had long held power in this region of France he believed he would be out of reach of the Nazi strong-arms. He couldn't have been more wrong. One night he mysteriously disappeared from the face of the earth and everything he owned immediately became property of the Third Reich. This particular estate proved to be a prime headquarters with its luxurious surroundings and favorable location. Tendrecoeur, the village, was a considerable industrial hub - surprising for such a small town. This meant excellent railroad access as well as manufacturing facilities that could easily be converted to wartime production and plenty of warehouse space. Outwardly, the Germans seemed interested merely in the production value of this town. However, unknown to the French people, very sinister plans were in the works. The Gestapo was indeed interested in the railroad access and the warehouses, but not for the number of vehicles or ammunition produced or transported. The cargo with which they were concerned was a bit more.. human.   
  
He had wandered off into his thoughts but was brought back to reality by the soft touch of cool lips on his shoulder. Turning to look at his brunette lover as she worked gentle kisses down his collarbone and across his pale, defined chest. She stopped momentarily at his nipples. Using her teeth, she tugged playfully with one, then the other, before moving on. When she reached his stomach, she changed direction and progressed back up to his exposed throat. Stopping only when she reached his lips. During her progression, she had moved so that she was straddling his midsection, the sheet pulled up to the middle of her back. With each hand sheboth hands, Dru pinned his arms to the bed and attacked his mouth with hers. Their naked bodies pressed together beneath the sheets. Biting, licking and pulling at his lips with a viciousness born of hunger as much as passion, she moved by touch, her eyes closed. Spike returned her ferocity but his eyes remained open, watching her, tasting and feeling everything. Her motions were drawing him in. It was as if she were a cobra dancing to the charmer's song. Every action deliberate, yet smooth and seductive, as she moved over his body. Her lips and touch smothered him and released him at the same time.   
  
Then suddenly she stopped. She straightened up, flinging her head back. Her hands at her temples. Eyes still closed, she began to hum softly; the hum turned to a moan. Spike knew what this meant and he couldn't help but be disappointed. Her head began to swing back and forth as she rolled away from him. He sat up, setting his bare feet on the cold hardwood floor.   
  
"What do you see, pet?" He wasn't quite able to keep the frustration from his voice.   
  
Dru now lay on her back with the sheet pulled up to her chin and wrapped around her. Her eyes were staring off into nothing. In a dreamy voice as if she wasn't aware of Spike but simply speaking to the room. "The big bad dog. He's come to bark at Spikey's toy soldier." Her brow furled up. "Oooo, he's gonna be mean to my boy. I'm not liking him. Make him go away Spike?" pouted Dru. With this last plea she reached up to his face and caressed his cheek.   
  
"Of course I will, luv." Spike was reaching down to grab his pants.   
  
"He wants to put a leash on your pet colonel. Woof woof." Dru began to fade as she spoke. Snuggling into the pillow, she curled her knees up into her chest and drifted off to sleep.   
  
Spike stood above her dressed in black breeches and a white long sleeved shirt still unbuttoned and untucked. Combing his hand through her hair, he shook his head bemusedly. He was buttoning the cuffs when a loud pounding at the outside door broke him away from his analysis of Dru's vision. With an annoyed glare he pulled a uniform coat over his shoulders. Taking his time, he bent to step into a pair of military boots. Running his hand over the toe he noticed they were in dire need of a good polish. Giving an apathetic shrug he turned once again to the pounding at the door. Passing through the antechamber, he stopped before the enormous oak door. He placed his hand on the gilded knob and paused, intentionally forcing the person on the other side to wait that much longer. It was apparent from the increasing force of the raps that the person was becoming agitated.   
  
Finally when it sounded as though the visitor was going to put their fist through the solid oak, Spike abruptly pulled the door open. Before him, stood an irritated, red-faced Captain Nielen.   
  
"The colonel has requested your presence, Lieutenant Schmidt." Nielen spit the words out with obvious animosity, emphasizing the fact that it was a request and not an order to an officer of such obvious low rank.   
  
Lieutenant Kruger Schmidt had been the name Spike had taken when he "joined" the German army. He had decided he would need to at least appear to have a reason to be here. But the rank of Colonel or Major might draw too much attention to himself so a low rank would have to suffice. Besides, simply because his collar didn't say Commander, there were other ways to get what you wanted.   
  
Spike considered the message "Thank you, that will be all." His tone was dismissive and transparently mocked the higher-ranking officer who had been sent to fetch a subordinate as though he were a mere servant sent to fetch a dignitary.   
  
This man was Konigsfeld's second-in-command, at least according to the regulations. In reality the Colonel had nearly completely ignored regulations since his "change" a few weeks before. This had not gone unnoticed by Nielen, and Spike was aware of the man's growing indignation towards the situation. But even though it might cause undesired ripples, the vampire couldn't resist throwing the infrequent stone. Just to enjoy the pleasure of the Captain's embarrassment and displeasure.   
  
"The Colonel requests very urgently. I was told to wait and escort you to his office." Nielen's voice had a bit more fire to it, but when he revealed he was ordered to wait his face turned a little darker shade of red.   
  
"I see." Spike acted as though he were thinking it over. Then with a shrug he took a step forward and closed the door behind him. "Well in that case I guess we had better go." Walking a step ahead of the Captain he couldn't help but smirk. Luckily Nielen couldn't see the reaction.   
  
There was a time when the Captain would have attempted to utilize his rank to push down the arrogance Spike showed, but several tongue-lashings by the commanding officer had quickly put a stop to that. Wordlessly they made their way through the vast corridors and hallways, their footsteps echoing off the white marble flooring. Though it was only the afternoon, the château was very dark, lit only by candles, gas lamps and torches. At first the other officers and soldiers had questioned the need for heavy drapes over all the windows. But an explanation about secrecy of their operations quickly quieted any curiosity. The hallways were lined with more furniture, tapestries and ornate suits of Armor.   
  
They came to the door of the study, which had been claimed by the Colonel as his office. Nielen turned and stood back as Spike cracked his neck and reached for the door handle. The Captain made no move to follow him into the room. Spike pushed the door open and entered into a room that was nearly dark if not for one covered lamp setting on the desk. It was turned down low so that it only illuminated Konigsfeld and his desk top with a sinister, almost satanic glow.   
  
Spike raised an eyebrow and pushed the door closed. Stepping forward he began to speak with an annoyed tone. "You had better well have a bloody Hell good reason for waking." Before he could finish Konigsfeld broke in, his voice sharp and commanding. "Lieutenant Schmidt. You will come to attention."   
  
"What?" Spike was incredulous that his childe would speak to him in such a way. "You've got to be .." But then he noticed it. He wasn't sure how it had eluded him at first, but there it was . a heartbeat in the room. Turning his head he could smell something .. someone. Someone new. Someone he didn't know. Spike still stood there at ease. He had never bothered to button his coat all the way as he rarely cared much for the spit and polish that was supposed to go with the job. From beside one of the bookshelves in the room stepped the object of Spike's discovery. The man looked to be about 50 years old, 5'8" and well over 200 pounds. Although his uniform was tailored, it appeared ill fitted and stretched around the girth of the man's belly. In one hand was a riding crop; the other hand toyed with its leather strap as if it were fascinating to him. 


End file.
